I’ve just been listening to Dad and Gran arguing about Brexit, or should I say, the lack of it. Remember I told you about all the arguments in our house when we first had the referendum back in 2016? Well, we’re still having the same old rows. It’s like Groundpig day. No one has changed their opinion in the slightest. Dad still thinks we should stay in the European Union and that everyone who wants to leave is a racist, insular, narrow minded, myopic Nazi. Gran said that was a compliment and reckons Dad is a weak minded, spineless, yellow bellied. commie traitor and should be shot as a Quisling collaborator.
I didn’t get why Gran bought up the fact that Dad enjoys taking part in pub quizzes during a political argument, so I looked the word up on Google and it seems that Quisling was a Norwegian bloke who took the side of the Nazis in the war. That puzzled me a bit, because if both their arguments are correct, they should be on the same side.
Even Mum gets involved at times. She said that If four ex-Prime Ministers and that nice Nick Clegg, who was nearly Prime Minister, think we should stay in the EU, then it’s good enough for her. She’s worried that if we leave, she might not be able to spend the 20 Euro note, left over from the day out to France she had with the Clicking Needles, knitters’ group, last year.
I’m a bit worried about it all too if I’m honest, I mean, if we leave Europe, we won’t belong to a continent anymore and it will cost a fortune to reprint all those atlases. Anyway, I want to go to Malaga this summer and if we aren’t in Europe I could be classed as stateless, like that ISIS bride, and that might make it a bit tricky until we sort all the maps out.
I can’t say I really understand it all, Emma. I get confused with all the terminology. EU, EEA, ECB, CAP, CFP… it does my head in, especially when I’m suffering with a bit of PMT.
Talking about PMT, I had it really bad last week. I bit Dad’s head off and told him to get a life, when he started waffling on about something called an MOT. It turns out that it’s nothing to do with Brexit. Apparently, mine’s run out, and I can’t drive my car until I get one. I’ll have a word with Barry the Brake. He’s opened the garage again now that Petrol Pauline has run off with Councillor Freeman. You know who I mean? He was in the papers when he was caught fiddling the council’s HCDWF, (Homeless Cross Dressers Wardrobe Fund.) I didn’t know the town had any homeless cross dressers, but Councillor Freebie, as he became known, insisted that their plight was genuine and anyway, it would reduce the number of underwear thefts from resident’s washing lines, so the fund would have the added benefit of cutting crime.
I know people call politicians, but in this case, he did have a point. I’ve had five pairs of pants and two bras stolen since Christmas. I don’t think it’s a cross dresser that’s stealing them though. I reckon my knicker nicker is that fat git, Sweaty Sam, next door. I’ve caught him watching from a crack in his curtains when I’m hanging my washing out a few times now, and the pink, lace hanky I saw him blowing his nose on in Tesco’s last week, looked suspiciously like the knickers from the fake Givenchy, bra and pants set you got me for my birthday. I think he was blowing his nose; he could have been sniffing them, the pervert. I had to donate the bra to the charity shop as I refuse to wear undies that don’t match.
I’d call the cops, but Dad says he’ll have a word with the old scrote. He doesn’t want the police coming around in case they spot the three boxes of avocados he brought home from work, and to be honest, I don’t want to take the chance of Neil coming around to ask searching questions about my pants. It took long enough to get rid of him, and I don’t want him thinking he’s got a chance of getting back into them again.
Back to Brexit. I’ve been trying to follow it on the news but it’s all so complicated. I mean, the government want to pass a motion on something called a Withdrawal Agreement, or WA. Now, don’t get this confused with you and your bloke deciding that his willy has spent enough time in soak after sex. It isn’t that sort of pulling out, it’s about pulling out of the EU. Some Tories have had an ERG over this and the paramedics had to be called in. On the other side of the HOC, some Labour politicians decided to quit the party over it and become the TIG. This caused the SNP, at PMQs, to call on the PM be a man and dissolve parliament. The PM, who is a woman, called TM, refused and called on the MPs to back her WA or she would have to go back to the EU and ask them for an extension to A50. Meanwhile, the DUP has said it will no longer back the PM because of the BS that was included in the WA so they want TM to go back to the EC and have it removed.
Blimey! My head is spinning now. Hope that cleared it all up for you Emma. Think I’ll join Dad down at the D&D (Dog and Duck,) for a G&T or two.
I’ll see you at Carmel Cranstone’s break up party on Saturday. I’m really looking forward to it. Remember how she boasted about him when he first proposed? She reckoned the wedding was going to be held in the Maldives. That’s when she still thought he was loaded though. She dropped him like a hot chipolata when she found out his dad owned that run down, fish shop in Merson Street and that his olive skin tone was mostly chip fat residue. He wasn’t that bad looking was he? I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on his battered sausage. He’d have to have a long bath first though.
Have fun babes. Will write again soon.
THM Tracy’s Hot Mail. See what I did there?